Alphonse sat in the middle of the small square room, on a chair that looked like the skeleton of a new species of vertebrate. It mas made of wood, curving to the shape of his back, painted white, but already there were signs of wear; chips in the painting showed a dull gray underneath.
The rest of the room was empty. Four walls, ceiling and floor, all painted black. He was facing the door, also black. Above was a lone lightbulb, making a low buzzing sound as it shed its sickly, fried-egg yellow light over Alphonse’s head.
Of course he was wearing his brown tweed jacket, all buttoned up, with brown pants, it all had to match perfectly when she came in.
“My muse.”, he whispered to no one in particular. The door opened up with a creaking sound that made him grit his teeth. Upon the door frame, wearing a red dress that flowed like a waterfall of blood over her body, bald, with hazel eyes that kept Alphonse’s own watery-blue focused on them.
Gorgeous, gorgeous. My muse. Dried lips were licked; it almost hurt to feel how chapped they were. Alphonse didn’t care, she was here now. The muse sauntered lazily over into the room and stopped a few inches in front of him. In one fluid motion she bent forward until her nose barely touched his. Both pair of eyes had not strayed away from each other.
“Every time your father fucked you, you wished it had been your sister instead.”
Yes, yes. He couldn’t help himself but grin sheepishly. “How much?”, he almost moaned. The muse simply smiled, showing pearly-white teeth.
“Five years less.”
She then opened her mouth, showing razor sharp knives and swallowed him before it all went dark.
Alphonse gasped while raising his head from the desk. Breathe, breathe.
“Jesus…”, a hoarse whisper, who said that? Oh…me.
The room was a mess, clothes strewn around, the bed unmade for days now, a few styrofoam containers with remains of food lay next to his chair. On the table he was sleeping he had a typewriter, the final page of his latest work was there. There had been an idea. Feeling groggy. One by one, Alphonse placed his fingers over the typewriter’s keyboard, trying to ground himself. His head was still swimming in molasses; he noticed the syringe on the left of the typewriter. His muse, always his muse. Waste not. The keys began to pound.